The Ugly Sociopaths Convention
by the Unrequited Lover
Summary: Voldemort, Erik, Steerpike, and Dorian Gray. There is murder, scandal, alliteration. Can the fangirlish Researcher handle it all?


**_Disclaimer: Tom Riddle and his other names are J.K. Rowling. Dorian Gray is Oscar Wilde. Steerpike is Mervyn Peake (though I shall go by the BBC production, in which he's Jonathan Rhys Meyers). And Erik is Gaston Leroux. Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber among others, but here, he's Gaston Leroux. Also mentioned are Artemis Fowl, who is Eoin Colfer, and Count Olaf, who is Lemony Snicket. And the phrase _"jaded sexual appetites"_ is from _The Ninth Gate,_ a movie._**

**Author's note: The Researcher is not based on me. The Researcher is an amalgram of all the girls on this site. Mostly the annoying ones. I'm sick of self-inserts in humour stories- though I am well aware I was one- in which the author has complete control over the surroundings. Even when I did that, everyone got out of my control.  
And- Bergen-Belsen was one of the worst concentration camps. The Oedipus conflict is when boys become sexually attached to their mothers. (For girls, it's the Electra.) And "pansexuality" is a sexual orientation separate from bisexuality, characterized by potential aesthetic attraction, romantic love and sexual desire for anybody.**

_Summary: She likes Sociopaths. She likes Ugly Sociopaths. The young female Researcher is researching Ugly Sociopaths. The cast? Tom Riddle, aka the Dark Lord- Erik, aka the Phantom of the Opera- Steerpike, aka the Master of the Ritual- Dorian Gray, aka Prince Charming. There is murder- there is harassment- there is alliteration? You can never tell what you'll get with sociopaths!_

"The Ugly Sociopaths Convention is now in session," said the young Researcher. "Now, to get started, does anyone have anything to say?"

A slim hand raised itself into the air elegantly.

"Yes, Mr Gray?"

Dorian put his hand down. "I wish only to remark upon the title of the convention. It is rather- ah- shall we say, unpleasing aesthetically?- and in order for there to be any contribution on my part, such things must be harmonious."

Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, swirled his cashmere cloak ominously. "I don't see why you're qualified to be here in the first place."

The young aristocrat went on as though he had not heard. As he had made the pursuit and worship of Beauty his life, he liked not to speak of such things. The small Researcher conducting the convention, who was neither ugly nor suffering from anti-social disorder, also avoided Erik's question, though not from any desire to cause mischief. The fact was merely that she was young, female, and rather silly at times, and Dorian Gray had captivated her fickle interest in the opposite sex. So as not to appear obvious, despite her blushing, she ducked her head as she asked, "What would you suggest it is changed to?" In some way, Dorian Gray, with his good looks, was more intimidating than the other four. The other four she could stare down trembling, but Dorian she couldn't even look in the face.

Before he could answer, however, he was interrupted by another attending the convention. "The Aesthetically-Challenged Antiheroes Assembly?" suggested Steerpike, who, like Dorian, was a rather attractive young man with a British accent. The only difference between them was that Steerpike was not in pastels, preferring black, and half of his face was covered in a mask.

"Lovely alliteration" said the researcher, who was personally very fond of Steerpike.

"Thank you," he responded. "Recently I've been very much interested in poetry."

"Have you read any Oscar Wilde at this point?" asked Dorian Gray, who had been very interested in poetry for a good portion of his life.

"I've read 'The Ballad of Reading—" Steerpike began, but was interrupted.

"There is one problem with the title," said another black-cloaked figure, also in a British accent, his voice cold and cruel. "Not all of use are antiheroes."

"That's true," said the Researcher. "Mr Riddle here is just a villain. The little twerp Potter is the hero."

"My name is not Tom Riddle, you adolescent twit," said the Dark Lord. The researcher blushed bright red. "We have already established that if I am to participate in your childish interrogation, you are to address me by my name."

The Researcher mumbled something, ducking her head down still further.

"If I may inquire," murmured Dorian in a soft, bored tone, "what _is_ your name?"

"Voldemort," replied the Dark Lord. The researcher shuddered horribly and dropped her clipboard, but no one else seemed particularly impressed, Erik least of all.

"Oh, God, these English," the Frenchman muttered. "What pronunciation! _Quelle horreur!"_

"I don't speak French. In Gormenghast, there never seemed to be any reason to learn," Steerpike admitted. "What does that mean?"

"Flight-From-Death," Erik replied.

"It would seemed one of our group suffers from a bit of a phobia," Dorian said, inspecting his fingernails indifferently.

"It isn't a phobia," replied the Dark Lord coldly, snake eyes flashing. "It is symbolic of my immortality."

"Please," interrupted the Researcher timidly, "This is a SOGS, or a Survey of Great Significance, so could you please- just maybe a little- try to stay in character?"

The four of them proceeded to ignore her.

"Names can be important, however," Dorian Gray mused.

"My own means 'powerful'," Erik remarked. "And as that is certainly true, there is some merit in what _ce joli-cœur _says."

"What does his mean?" Steerpike asked, gesturing towards Dorian.

"The Nazi-wannabe certainly needs to go back to school," the Dark Lord muttered, the Nazi reference alluding to Steerpike's boots. "A truly bad villain does not need to ask questions like a schoolboy."

Steerpike said nothing. Perhaps he seemed like another young man trying to fit in, but he was merely gathering information. If he seemed as though he were a little naïve, so much the better. He could strike without being suspected.

"My name was not in use before Oscar Wilde," Dorian admitted, "but it is very similar to a name meaning 'Stranger'."

"Stranger Gray," Steerpike mused aloud. "Certainly, it is ambiguous."

"And yours means?" Erik asked the other masked sociopath.

"Well, I…" he hesitated. "I don't believe my name was in use before Mervyn Peake, and it certainly hasn't been used since." Erik looked as though he would reply, but the Researcher spoke again.

"Please, this is a SOGS, or a Survey of Great Significance, s could you stay on topic, too? Please?"

"You seem a Lemony Snicket fan," Erik said. "Why not invite Count Olaf?"

"He's ugly, and a sociopath, but he's just too uncultured for me and besides, I think if I invited too many sociopaths they might kill eachother…and that's not very on topic, _Monsieur Le Fantôme."_

"What would be on-topic as subject, Miss Researcher?" replied the masked magician coldly.

"Master Steerpike's suggestion concerning the group name," she replied quickly in a meek voice. When you angered You-Know-Who and the Opera Ghost both in the same day, submission sounded like a good idea very quickly.

"I vote it's the Aesthetically-Challenged Antagonists Assembly," said the Dark Lord. "Now will you move on with it?"

"Not all of us are antagonists, either," Dorian Gray said. The snake-eyes man glared at him, but it had no effect. Dorian was used to shrugging off glares with a smile.

"Well…" The Researcher could sense a fight, and considering that none of them had been willing to have their slingshots, smallswords, lassos, wands, throwing knives, or poisons confiscated, they were all dangerous. Dorian Gray would seem the sole exception, but he had a knife of his own tucked away. Wanting to live as long as possible, the Researcher cleared her throat, made some notes on her clipboard, and said, "Let's move onto biographies, shall we?"

Dorian, Erik, and Steerpike exchanged glances. The Dark Lord sat as stone.

The Researcher took out a remote control from where she sat at the head of the conference table and pointed at the flat-screen television on the other side of the table, then pressed a button. It came to life smoothly, beginning to display some images. The Dark Lord muttered something about mudbloods, but the other three stared at this cutting-edge technology as though they were dreaming.

"Gormenghast could use this sort of thing," Steerpike said in admiration. He had a keen interest in progress.

"The Paris Opera House is more impressive," Erik countered.

The Researcher pressed some buttons and in a short time a picture of Erik was on the screen.

"Erik…otherwise known as the Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, or the Angel of Music. Born hideously deformed…mother never loved him…"

"Let me guess…the Oedipus conflict?" the Dark Lord muttered unpleasantly.

The others had not heard of Sigmund Freud, though Dorian Gray thought he understood as he was acquainted with Greek mythology, and the Researcher continued as though she hadn't heard.

"…joined the gypsies and studied magic…went to Persia, studied torture…good at legerdemain, hypnotism, architecture, music, especially the organ, violin, and vocals…did I miss anything?"

"Ventriloquism," said Erik's voice, coming from the Erik on the screen. The Researcher blushed again.

"Right," she said, making a note on her clipboard. "Next…" A picture of a young man, quite attractive with black hair and blue eyes, appeared on the screen. He was in school robes and wearing a green and silver scarf.

"Tom Riddle," continued the Researcher, "raised in an orphanage—"

"Oh, god, an orphan," Steerpike groaned. "How cliché."

"Excuse me?" said Dorian, raising an arched eyebrow delicately.

"—becomes the greatest Dark Wizard to have ever existed…undergoes magical rituals disfiguring forever…Riddle decides to call himself by some French name, starts a group called the "Death Eaters" that believes only purely magical persons should study magic…and as everyone knows, will be murdered by a 17-year-old Leo boy with messy hair."

Erik snickered, his own hair slicked back quite neatly. Steerpike, who also had pristinely smooth hair, spoke up. "And so…if someone were to try to get in and become powerful…"

"They'd be scum." The Dark Lord finished. Steerpike said nothing, still deep in thought.

"Next: Steerpike." The Researcher pressed another button and his face came up. "Born of somewhat noble birth…sexually abused…

Steerpike became very interested in a speck on his lapel and 'did not notice' the looks the other three gave him.

"…sent to the kitchens at six…escapes at 17 and, through murder and just plain Bond-esque slickness becomes Master of the Ritual."

Dorian applauded politely, rather bored by this time, and Steerpike cast him a look.

"And now…" said the Researcher, pressing a button. Dorian Gray's attractive face came on screen.

"I still can't see him as an "ugly sociopath"," Erik grumbled.

"Margaret Devereux, a beautiful girl, was his mother. She could have married anyone, but married a poor man instead."

"Why does this sound familiar?" the Dark Lord grumbled, thinking about his own mother who married a muggle.

"Her father paid a man to shoot him, and then his daughter was brought back to live with him, though she would not speak. After Dorian was born, she died, leaving her son to his cruel grandfather's care."

"Beautiful, a tragic past…" Erik looked up at Dorian sharply. "Well, you're just the High Queen of the Mary Sues, now, aren't you?"

Dorian, disconcertingly enough, only smiled, knowing something Erik didn't.

The Researcher went on. "A man painted a picture of him and as it was finished, Dorian wish he could remain young and innocent-looking while the picture grew aged and ugly in his place, and…" she paused for dramatic effect, but when she finished with "uh, it kinda worked" she ruined it.

"Oh, stand up and take a bow," Steerpike said sarcastically.

"Or a curtsey," the Dark Lord suggested. "I don't see how he's in the "ugly sociopath convention" if he hasn't done anything."

The Researcher took out a list. "Oh, every sort of sin…blackmailing his friends, opium…murder…"

"Indulging a jaded sexual appetite," Dorian went on in a bored tone, "with both women and men."

The other three gave him odd looks and suddenly seemed very uncomfortable, but Dorian waved his hand. "Don't worry," he said, "none of you are my type."

Steerpike turned to the Researcher very quickly. "In your research, have you looked up authors as well?" he asked hastily. Dorian caught his eye and smirked.

"Oh! Yes," the Researcher said, missing the sexual harassment and taking out a piece of paper. "Well, J.K. Rowling was responsible for Mr Riddle," she began.

"Voldemort!" the Dark Lord snapped. The Researcher cringed so badly that she dropped her clipboard again.

"Oh, for god's sake," muttered Steerpike, annoyed by her antics.

"I don't blame her," Erik said darkly, "I hate badly spoken French."

"As do I," Dorian Gray said indifferently. "It shows such poor taste."

"Moving on," growled the Dark Lord, and he turned to the Researcher, who said hurriedly, "And Erik is from a French journalist, Gaston Leroux, and Dorian is from the inexorable Oscar Wilde, and Steerpike from Mervyn Peake, one of the first men to see the camp at Belsen!" She finished in a squeak. Erik and Dorian had not outlived the 19th century and had no idea about the second world war or Bergen-Belsen, but the other two knew a little.

"See, that just proves he's a Nazi wannabe," said the Dark Lord.

"Me?" asked Steerpike, kicking his legs up on the table and crossing them. He had a knife in one boot and wanted it available. "The actor who played you also played a rather unpleasant Nazi commandant."

"The actor who played you," said Dorian, rather matter-of-factly, "also played a pansexual pop idol. And what is a Nazi, anyway?"

The question was ignored as Steerpike flushed at the _Velvet Goldmine_ mention. He could not see how Jonathan Rhys Meyers could have taken on such very different roles, and being associated by Brian Slade and getting hounded down by fangirls- and fanboys- always made him nervous.

"Oh, _mon Dieu_," Erik breathed. "You were all invented by…the English!"

"Actually," Dorian interrupted," Oscar Wilde was Irish, which is quite another thing."

Erik glared. "Well, fine. But you—all of you—are English!"

"Actually," Steerpike spoke up, "I'm Irish, which is quite another thing."

"So is Artemis Fowl, but he's not here," the Dark Lord mentioned suddenly. "Why is that?"

"Oh, he's young, and too snarky for his own good," the Researcher admitted. "He'd die in…two seconds. Plus, he's gone straight anyway."

"I wish everyone could do that," Steerpike murmured with a discreet glance at Dorian.

"Oh, you don't wish that," Dorian said with a smile.

"Is there any other pertinent information?" Erik asked the Researcher, growing impatient with the others.

"Love interests," she replied, pressing a button on the remote.

"You must be a teenage girl," muttered the Dark Lord.

"And so is that!" Steerpike exclaimed. The party looked at the screen. A young redhead in schoolrobes and a red-and-gold scarf was there.

"That's Ginny Weasely," the Researcher offered. Since hey had all seen similar robes before, heads turned in the Dark Lord's direction.

"There's a good reason-" he began, and there really was a perfectly acceptable reason- but Erik interrupted superciliously as the Researcher quickly pressed another button.

"A little young for you, isn't she?" the Frenchman asked.

"Mademoiselle Christine Daaé!" the Researcher introduced, and silence fell as everyone looked to the screen. Even the Dark Lord, with his poor French, knew where the phrase "mademoiselle" came from.

"A little young for you, isn't she?" he mimicked, mocking Erik as he looked at him smugly. The Researcher bit her lip, then addressed the group hastily.

"The next- er- few…are for Dorian Gray," she said, preparing the press the button. "He—"

"Stop!" Steerpike interrupted quickly. "I don't want to know."

"Yeah…" Erik nodded.

"If it's a man…even if they only cuddled…I just- I don't want to know," Steerpike finished, shuddering.

Dorian, who had a pretty good grasp of people himself, was finding Steerpike's homophobia quite amusing. However, it made sense, as he'd been sexually abused in childhood. Still, there was quite a novelty in flirting with him.

"Then, let's move onto Steerpike," the Researcher suggested, pressing a different button. "Fuchsia Groan. I mean, Lady Fuchsia Groan."

"'Groan'?" repeated Erik. "Oh, she sounds charming."

"She's really just a spoiled princess who rejects Steerpike because he's from the kitchens, not a boy of the blood."

"Oh, is that it?" murmured Dorian. "Don't worry, I'm never so picky." Steerpike tensed a bit, then the Dark Lord coughed politely.

"So, Gormenghast has mudbloods too?" he remarked in a cruel manner. Steerpike tensed even more.

"Now is not the time to air your Nazi views," he said testily.

"I admit, it rather disgusts me to be seated at this table near you," the Dark Lord said. "But if you insist…You're quite fortunate I don't waste my time on mudbloods and kitchen boys."

The Researcher sensed danger. "Gentlemen, I think this conversation should be abandoned—"

There was a gasp and a crash, and then the Researcher began to scream, as Steerpike's throwing knife had ended up in the throat of the Dark Lord, who had then fallen down dead. The once-Kitchen Boy had retrieved his knife from his boot and thrown it before the arrogant Dark Lord had even had the chance to reach his wand. Take that, you snotty Boy-Who-Lived.

The Researcher was still screaming shrilly.

"Oh, shut up," Erik said bad-temperedly. "You have a screech to rival La Carlotta!"

"Good throw, Steerpike," Dorian said, still somewhat bored, "I always use knives myself. And yes, do have her shut up."

Still she screamed. Steerpike felt the other two looking at him and though it was his duty to stop her, as he'd caused her to make the racket in the first place.

"Now that he's dead, you know, we can be the Aesthetically-Challenged Antiheroes Assembly, as we're all antiheroes now," he suggested. She kept up.

"Oh, for god's sake, I'll shut her up," Erik snapped, reaching into his cloak.

The screaming stopped abruptly, but from her wildly shaking hand as she scribbled furiously on her clipboard they could tell she was still hysterical. The truth was that the sociopaths were probably not going to manage shutting her up through threats without aggravating the problem. Each had known from personal experience just how annoying a hysterical girl can be- Fuchsia's obnoxious temper tantrums, Sibyl Vane's frenzied pleas, and Christine's panicked crying over "the bag of life and death" had shown that. It didn't help that those three had attempted suicide, and that two had succeeded.

"Don't worry, miss," Dorian assured her, now taking out a cigarette case of silver," 'Voldemort'-" he spoke with deliberately bad French, making Erik snicker at the joke- "won't be missed."

She trembled horribly and dropped the clipboard. Erik groaned and finished pilling out the Punjab lasso. "If she won't—"

"Oh-_god_- the time!- sorry- bye- _thanks for coming!_" she gasped in one emotionally charged and incoherent sentence and ran out of the room.

Erik scowled and put the lasso away. Steerpike stood and picked up the clipboard, reading it.

"'Oh-Em-Gee, Tom is dead,' is all it says," Steerpike said, raising an eyebrow.

"And what had she written before that?" Erik asked.

Steerpike sniggered suddenly, then controlled himself. "'Oh-Em-Gee, Dorian is cute'," he said, trying not to laugh. "What does 'Oh-Em-Gee' mean? She just wrote those letters, all capitalized."

"Oh My God, I think," Erik replied.

Steerpike shook his head and tossed the clipboard away where it landed on the stiffening corpse. "You'd think she'd have come to some conclusions about sociopaths."

"Fangirls," muttered Erik. "Why is it always fangirls?"

Dorian was now smoking his cigarette and reclining elegantly in his seat. He blew smoke as he nodded. "Cigarette?" He offered the case. Nothing else to do, they each took one and sat down.

And that, as they say, was that.

**So the Researcher could think of no conclusions to draw about sociopaths. Can you?**


End file.
